


Eagle eyed

by Lisbeth_laufeyson



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24612376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisbeth_laufeyson/pseuds/Lisbeth_laufeyson
Summary: A what if where Barca and Pietros survive to join the rebellion and bring their own special skillset to the cause
Relationships: Barca/Pietros
Comments: 24
Kudos: 32





	1. Lazarus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [5BPencil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/5BPencil/gifts).



> Written for 5BPencil who kindly requested this fic. theres a lot of ground to cover and im not sure how long this will be, but here's the first part. :)
> 
> Also, from writing a wee tiny snippit of interaction, i now kinda wanna do a Dura/Pietros fic.
> 
> thank you for requesting, my friend. i hope you enjoy it. More to come :)

Something about summons feels wrong, wrong enough to slow Barca's steps as he is led into the main house. A tang on the wind? An agitation in the very air that irritates every hair on his body? There is no such physical sign, yet Barca is a smart man and knows a threat when he senses it. He stops together only to be barged forward by the guards.

To run now would mean his death but as the specter of it is waiting for him around the next corner it's an easy choice to give himself a fighting chance rather than be a lamb being led to slaughter. He swings his arm and hits the guard to his right with the heel of his palm right into the end of his nose. The guard drops with barely a sound as his nose bursts. The other guards are quicker off the mark than their companion and draw their weapons. Barca drops into a defensive stance, mind whirring over the possible outcomes, but blood and death stares at him from every turn.

The upper house is a foreign to him as the land beyond its gates, but, by luck, Barca weaves his way to a room with a balcony. He halts at the barrier, staring down at the sands where he trained and bled and spat all in service of a man who would have his life when he is so close to purchasing his way to freedom and his body makes the choice for him. He leaps over the banister and lands hard upon the ground below. His knees and hips, even his teeth, quake from the shock but there is no time to pause. Guards stream from the house with Batiatus' booming voice filling the space they vacate. The gates are slammed on the other gladiators, raised from their drink and fucking by the commotion above. Hands reach out, fingers desperately beckoning him. Would Batiatus strike him down now, in front of his brothers? In front of his love?

Moonlight on sharpened steel answers his question. With one desperate searching look for the deep, dark, eyes that quicken his heart, Barca ran and, entrusting himself to the mercy of the gods, leaped over the edge.

#

“There is no sign of blood nor tattered flesh,” Crixus whispered to the others softly, out of earshot of Pietros. “Perhaps he survived.”

“Yes, perhaps the beast of Carthage sprouted fucking wings and will one day return to shit on this very Ludus,” Agron grumbled. Others, including his brother, laughed.

Crixus scowled. “Have you no fucking compassion?”

Agron quickly glanced over his shoulder. “The boy did not hear. He is more interested in those fucking birds.”

“It is all he has left of the man.” Crixus' voice took on a dangerous edge. The others at the table looked at one another, concerned.

Agron shrugged. “He'll soon find another cock to fill arse.”

Crixus stood so swiftly the table upended. “You overstep, pup!”

Agron, never one to back down, faced him, unflinching. “The way you speak we would be forgiven thinking it was you who took Barca's cock every night.”

Again he and his friends laughed once more. Crixus cleared the fallen table in a bound and took Agron down with him. Allies on both sides piled in, trading punches and kicks with the others until Doctore's whip licked along their backs.

Spartacus shook his head and sat down next to Pietros against the far wall. “Rome could fall and mountains crash into the sea, and still Crixus and Agron would scrap like dogs over a bone.”

Pietros forced a smile for a moment before his face fell to the same blank expression he had worn in the hours since Barca's passing. 

Spartacus watched him for a moment. “You must eat,” He gently chastised. “You will need your strength in coming days.”

Pietros snorted a joyless laugh. “I have heard tale of your plan. Barca's death has served you well in that regard.”

“No,” Spartacus laid a gentle hand on Pietros' arm. “His death has only brought our anger more swiftly upon this house.”

“And what would I do with freedom?” Pietros snapped. “I would wander out there alone and unloved the same as I wander here. There is no difference for me. No life without him.”

Spartacus took a deep breath. “Your pain is known to me, Pietros, and I am always here to listen if you wish to speak of him.”

“There is no comfort in words.” Pietros rose to his feet and swiped Spartacus's hand away. “Please, leave me be.”

He headed to the room he had once shared with Barca, more of a cell than a room, but it had been their home. The birds they both cared for greeted him in their usual noisy way, but Pietros ignored them. He sat on the bed pallet, his body numb, his eyes dry for he had no more tears to cry. It was only the day after Barca had been hounded over the cliff, but Pietros's life had already crumbled to dust. There was no loving arms anymore, no soft words in the night, no great gladiator to shield him from the predations of ones who would not be so gentle nor care for his feelings. He clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle the wail that threatened to burst forth.

The clatter of steel against the bars shocked him out of his thoughts. A guard stood there, scowling at him, demanding explanation for the shirking of his duties. Pietros bit his tongue, untrustworthy of his ability to keep calm words when a sudden rage burned within. Instead he forced himself to walk, to attend his duties, and push down whatever feelings tried to derail him throughout the day.

#

A week had passed. A change had begun to scent the air of the Ludus, one that made the gladiators agitated and the Roman's fearful. Even Doctore, the most loyal of them all, did not defer to Batiatus the way he once had.

This did not go unnoticed.

Beatings were delivered at the slightest provocation. Gladiators were called upon every night to fuck the house slaves as entertainment for whatever esteemed guest Batiatus and Lucretia were sucking up to. The house slaves had what little freedom they had curbed entirely, and the only crime any of them had permitted was being witness to Barca's demise. Or perhaps the true crime in the eyes of their masters was what they thought about the whole incident and what such thoughts may eventually drive them to.

Perhaps things would have settled once more if three incidents had not occurred within the Ludus walls which turned what were mere mutterings of retribution into action. The first was the cruel example made of Crixus, who's only crime was falling in love. And while they beat the man and left him prostrate upon the sand, bloodied back exposed to the starless sky, the real cruelty was what they did to Naevia. With hair shorn short and jealous blows delivered by the domina, she was ripped from loving arms to a fate unknown. And all men, whether love fell to women or other men, felt that pain and a weight settled on them as if they were shackled once more. 

The second was the cruel and unjust killing of Varro made all the more horrific by the fact Spartacus's hand had been forced to the killing blow. Perhaps the Romans had misjudged how deeply the brotherhood ran between the men who regularly fought and bled, or maybe they thought so little of the gladiators that the thought of them having any kind of tender feelings was alien to them. Whatever the case they had overplayed their hand and signed their own death warrant. 

The whispers became open talk. Not everyone was on board but the tide was turning in favor of Spartacus and his plan. Moods brought so low by their treatment were bolstered by thoughts of retribution, but Pietros would have no part in it. He had no need to plan a life beyond the walls when all he had ever known, all he had ever loved, had existed within them. The memory had been tainted by those who had forced themselves on him in the very space that Barca had made love to him, but even that couldn't spear him into fleeing. One of his abusers, the one who had not had the care to not leave bruising anywhere visible, had gone over the edge of the cliff, but the others were still within the group, and if all the slaves escaped then they would be within their number.

It was then, in his darkest hour, when despair and pain deep in his heart threatened to send him over the edge as well that the third incident happened. 

Peitros stood on the cliff edge, toes curling over the lip. He closed his eyes and let the wind sway his body. He had not the strength to leap like Barca had, nor a vengeful blow to send him over, like had happened to his abuser. All he had was the patient hand of the wind and the gift of time to see his wants fulfilled.

A sudden flutter of wings startled him back from the edge. Pietros landed hard on his back, his breath stolen from him, and his head close to where his winged visitor had landed. It was a pigeon, the same kind as the ones he and Barca had tended to, but unlike those birds this one shied away from his touch, though not altogether out of grasp. Pietros gripped it gently so as not to damage its wings, and carefully unwound the treasure from around its leg.

#

“Are you sure of this?” Sparatcus asked.

Pietros nodded. “This adorned his neck as long as I knew him. He lives!”

Spartacus gave him a smile that was not without pity. “Perhaps, though birds do have a liking for shining trinkets.”

Pietros snatched the pendent back. “This was tied in a way that was no accident. He sent a message to us. This bird would have made its way to me eventually.” He looked down at the jewelry nestled in his palm. “I will do it. Whatever you need of me in coming battle I will do it.”

“For tonight I would have you sleep here, away from pawing hands and hungry cocks.”

“Agron and Duro have been watching over me,” Pietros admitted. “And Crixus also. Most of them have been most kind.”

Spartacus smiled. “Then return to chosen place and sleep well. Tomorrow will bring much change.”

Pietros hurried back to the others. He held the pendent safe in his hands and never spoke about, and although he slept between the German brothers and could not conceal his prize from their eyes neither asked him to divulge what it was or how he had came across it. 

“Keep it safe,” Duro whispered in the dark.

“Agreed,” Agron, the older and gruffer of the two spoke. “We have precious few treasures in the world as it is.”

#

The next day brought much change, as Spartacus foretold. With sword in hand, Pietros followed the gladiators into the main house, jumping over the felled guards and streams of hot blood. In the chaos of battle within the house he sought out his own revenge, dispatching those of his abusers that still lived with cruel belly wounds that would ensure a slow death. Cries echoed around him, men he knew and had watched train lay dead upon the tiles, but the air was charged with victory.

He was clumsy with a blade, his killing of his abusers was achievable more through surprise than skill, but he was lithe and fast, and as he did not look like a threat he went largely unchallenged until his blade drew blood. He surged forward with the gladiators as they hunted the last remaining Romans who streamed towards the door and freedom, but it opened without their touch and all that greeted them there was death. Death brought by a giant of a man with fierce dark eyes and dreadlocks flying. Death on the wings of fallen swords and, eventually, a spear, his chosen weapon, as he wrested it from the fallen. And when all lay dead around the feet of a warrior who should have been dead himself Pietros ran, pendent still clutched in hand, and flew into his arms.

Barca caught him, hugged him, kissed him, and then set him back upon the ground. His hands, stained by Roman blood, touched Pietros' face, his shoulders, anywhere he could reach, as if he didn't believe what he saw before him.

“To set eyes on you again,” Barca whispered. Tears ran freely down his cheeks. “Is all my heart ever wanted.”

Pietros sniffed. “How is it that you live?”

A cheer echoed from further in the villa. Barca gently nudged him towards it. “First, lets celebrate our freedom, and fuck upon the bed of those that held us in chains for so long, then, we shall share words.”

He laid his arm across Pietros' shoulders and walked with him into the heart of the villa.


	2. First Step On The Road To Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietros wishes to know how Barca survives, but he remains tight lipped, preferring to enjoy what time he can with Pietros before they are forced to move on from the villa. WIth Pietros struggling with the first bloody steps of freedoms road, Barca decides to tell him how he survived.

The mosaic floors were thick with gore. Blood flowed in the pools where water had before, and among the bodies of the slain Romans the gladiators and slaves had their first taste of hard won freedom in the form of rich wine and enough food to satisfy twice their number. 

The bed of the deceased dominus rocked and creaked as two men who had not dared to hold out hope of being reunited made passionate love upon the exotic silks and fine spun linens. Pietros, his head fuzzy with wine, his heart singing with joy, let his voice rise free like it never had before. He gripped Barca's thighs and leaned back, riding him harder and faster, taking him deeper until he could take no more. His orgasm seemed to thrum through his entire body before drawing deep into his belly and surging from his body. Barca followed soon after, gripping Pietros' hips and holding him still as he spilled deep inside him.

Barca sat up, gathered Pietros close to him, then rolled to his side, keeping them close and his cock inside Pietros as they lay upon the bed. He smiled, prompting Pietros to grin in return.

“I dreamed many a night of such a reunion,” he whispered, and petted Pietros' back as he spoke. “Even on the days when hope seemed a fools game.”

“I also dreamed, though I feared you dashed on the rocks below this very house.” Pietros gazed deep into his eyes. “How did you survive such a thing?”

Barca pressed a lingering kiss to Pietros' lips. “The gods took pity and gifted me wings like our beautiful feathered companions.”

“Be serious,” Pietros laughed. “I wish to know. How is it that you fell to an almost certain death and yet return to my arms unscathed.”

Barca rolled them both once more, until Pietros was underneath him with his cock, which was stiffening once more, still inside him. “Talk of such things can wait.” He kissed the smaller man and gently lapped his tongue over his. “For now, I must have you once more before we are forced to leave this place.”

Pietros grinned and wound his arms around Barca's back. They kissed once more and, quickly, the bed of the one they had once called Dominus creaked underneath them once more.

#

Barca stood on the cliff edge with his hand tightly clasped in Pietros'. In the ludus, the gladiators grabbed what they could and prepared to leave. They had, perhaps, lingered too long and had lost some of the darkness they hoped wold cover their flight, but some incidents had to be marked. And now, full of wine, rich food, and the joy of freedom, they had to leave. Pietros had been ready before most of the others, but Barca insisted they had one important task to do before they left.

The cages were piled high beside them. The birds within were quiet, with only the odd coo and rustle of feathers betraying their presence. After a moment of closed eyed silence, Barca reached into the cage and gently drew one of the birds out. He held it close to his face and petted its back.

“As promised first by Auctus, I hold the oath in his absence,” He said softly. “Now, we are all free.”

He opened his hands but the bird didn't rise. Gently, he raised his hands. The pigeon finally took wing, wheeled over the ludus, then disappeared into the night sky. The rest, having seen their brother take flight, were quicker to follow, and soon the cages were empty. Pietros and Barca stood for a moment, arm and arm, but the eastern sky was no longer black and time to process the moment was not afforded to them. They moved as quickly as Barca's injured leg allowed, barely pausing to grab cloaks and weapons before assembling with the others.

Moving swiftly away from the blood drenched ludus, there was barely time for feelings of freedom to truly settle over any of them. Any little noise could spell the end of their very lives. Even the most innocent eyes that saw their passing and recognized their faces could seal their fate, so they moved, faces shrouded, voices silent, until they reached the city of Capua itself. Here, with blood lust still running high, they attacked the citizens who had bayed for their blood for so long, freeing other slaves and swelling their numbers. By the time they were forced underground by the city guards, Pietros was spattered with blood and globs of gore he would rather not identify. Wearily, he stepped down into the darkness of the sewers with the others and found as dry a corner as he could to rest in.

Barca was at his side in a moment, and gently wiped the blood from his face with the edge of his cloak. “Precious one,” he whispered. “Would that you could have been spared such sights.”

“Do not think me weak of stomach or heart,” Pietros said and forced a smile. “We all must do what's necessary.”

Barca nodded and sat beside him, his back against the wall. “You are a formidable fighter. You should be proud of your part in winning freedom for us all.”

Pietros picked at the drying blood on the back of his hand. “I have watched you all train for long enough, and I am no stranger to the weight of a gladius.”

“Will you take no earned praise this night?” Barca laughed.

“Apologies,” Pietros sighed. “My heart is unduly heavy for seeing so many lives dashed on the path of our freedom.”

“Lives that would have seen us similarly strewn on path.” He coaxed Pietros to sit in his lap and wrapped his arms around him when he did so. “And in clearing path we are one step closer to true freedom, and a future far from here where our life will be led as we see fit.”

“It is a price that we must pay. I know this.” Peitros rested his forehead against Barca's. “Forgive me. Weight upon soul will ease with time.”

“Allow me to offer some distraction,” Barca offered. 

Pietros sighed heavily. “Apologies, but body is too weary for such carnal distractions. I shall rectify this when able.”

Barca laughed. “I treasure your company and your conversation, so allow me to distract with a story you wished me to tell earlier.” He leaned in close to whisper in Pietros' ear. “Imagine it now, my dear one. I knew I was going to die, but I refused to perish upon their blades.”

Pietros closed his eyes and let Barca's words paint pictures inside his head.

#

The wind whistles past Barca as he clears the edge of the cliff. The full magnitude of what he has done only hits once there is no ground beneath his feet. Fueled by a sudden and overwhelming desire to survive rather than deliver himself into the hand of the fates, he twists in the air, but is already too far from the cliff to grab the edge. Instead he falls and finally grasps trailing roots sticking out of the sheer wall.

They are strong and sturdy, but now he is trapped between certain death on the rocks below and climbing to face an almost equally certain demise on the blades above, so instead he hangs, waiting, until the ludus is quiet once more. 

Shoulders aching from the sudden stop of his descent, Barca looks around for a way to get back up the cliff. Thankfully, the cliff is not as sheer as it seems from the top and, with carefully searching fingers, he gains a hand hold and then the tiniest gap to place his toes, and then another. Slowly, with the roots grasped in one hand, he climbs back up.

Suddenly, a rock gives away and pulls from the cliff face in his hands. He slips, cutting his flesh and ripping nails on the cliff face, but the roots save him once more. This time, with more caution, and with an ache in his ankle after scrambling for purchase, he climbs higher, testing each hold he gets for integrity before committing his weight to it. When he reaches where the roots jut out from the earth he commits himself to climb the remainder with only the gods favor to keep him safe the rest of the way.

Inexplicably, his fingers finally grasp the dry grass jutting out from the cliff top. With a final effort, all his muscles straining, he pulls himself back up onto flat ground. He does not have time to recover. Though his falls and looking for suitable holds have driven him away from the ludus itself, it is not far enough to not be seen if he lingers too long. Keeping low, he runs, keeping away from the roads to Capua and any other signs of civilization.

Though the ground is dry and the plant life struggling, Barca is no stranger to surviving in harsh climes. Putting his knowledge to the test, he carefully gathers what food he can, deriving sustenance for parched tongue from the plants themselves. He cannot survive long out here, which means there is a choice to be made. No one is looking for him and he is just one man. He could escape, be free, and no one would be any the wiser. But something calls him back. Something prevents him moving completely out of sight of the ludus. And that something's name is Pietros.

Being alone in the arid countryside allows him time to think, but no amount of thinking can turn him into an army to take on the ludus and free his love. Instead he watches, waits, remembers the seeds of derision he had heard before his sudden departure and hoping the sight of him being pursued to his death by the guards will have given them a stronger voice. He is but one man, but even one man can help turn a tide.

News reaches him in his desolate hiding place. The Romans talk loudly upon the road, laughing about the death of Varro and the ill treatment of his brothers. They also speak in quieter, more fearful voices, about a change they feel under Batiatus' roof. Barca holds such words close to heart, bolstering his resolve to stay, wounded and hungry as he is.

Finally, he hears the noise upon the wound. He recognizes his brothers war cries and the dying wails of the Roman's. He rushes in, relieving a retreating guard of his weapon and his life before fighting his way into the villa, tearing Romans asunder as he does. It is there, on the blood slick tiles, that he finally sets eyes on his love once more. 

#

Pietros smiled and opened his eyes as Barca fell into silence. “Why did you not go. You had an opportunity no one else has ever had to live free.”

Barca nuzzled his nose against Pietros'. “Freedom would be a hollow thing indeed without those I love to share it with.”

Pietros grinned and leaned in to kiss Barca. Their peace was shattered as Spartacus called them all together. It was time to formulate plans and traverse further along the road to true freedom.


	3. Feral Little Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barca takes a newly freed slave under his wing when an incident means the only thing standing between the slave and death is Spartacus' word. Thinking that Peitros' gentle nature and similar age may help balm the emotional wounds the young man is suffering from, he entrusts him to Peitros' watch overnight in the hopes they will break much needed words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have watched this show twice now had still had to read the episode synopsis to makes sure this was in the right order haha. I know there is continuity errors in the first chapters, namely that Duro and Peitros never met (though i am all about the possibilities of THAT pairing hahaha) but this is an AU, so some changes are bound to be expected. 
> 
> I know that Barca is kind of seen as rough and cruel, but I just can't settle that view for him, not all the time at least. I find him really like Agron's character actually, where both can be caustic, violent, and angry, but have astounding amounts of kindness and gentleness in them around the right people. Crixus is a little like this too, but out the three I find him the most cruel. Eh, we all have our own character ideas i suppose :)
> 
> And of course, as always, Peitros is a sweetie.

It was love that guided their steps. Chiefly the love Crixus bore for Naevia, and having suffered the death of one lover and a temporary loss of another Barca understood the drive. If only others, namely Agron, could see the quest with sympathetic eyes.

The group lurched from villa to villa, spurred on by words of one about another. A trailing thread of story and myth, of sightings and half remembered meetings led them ever on, until, after taking another villa and freeing the slaves, they finally rested in a new place, a better place, while bearings were found.

Barca surveyed the newly freed slaves. “More shit to swell our numbers. Not a fighting man among them,” he whispered to Peitros.

“Many thought the same of me,” Peitros said with a smile. “Am I not more than shit now?”

“You always were,” Barca said. “And you have always been around swords and fighting, not like these shits, bred for nothing more than fucking.”

The slave he had gestured towards, a short man with long dark hair, met his gaze without flinching. Even at a distance, the clench in his jaw was obvious.

“I believe one of their number may simply be keeping their flame well shrouded.” Peitros smirked.

Barca held the gaze of the man, who had maybe seen as many years as Peitros, until he looked away. It took longer than he expected, and far longer than he wanted. “Unwatched flames can quickly get out of hand,” he mumbled half to himself

He led Peitros into the villa and found them a place to bed down for the night. Despite finally having the comfort of a dry and warm resting place, Barca could not settle. Pietros, on the other hand, fell to slumber as soon as his weary body rested upon the gathered linens. Barca hugged Pietros to him and tried to follow him into sleep, but, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. 

Raised voices deeper in the villa got him to his feet. He raced through the stone hallways with his sword gripped tightly. In the rooms Spartacus has claimed he found Spartacus, Crixus, and Agron already there, and held firm by two guards, the newly freed slave who had held his gaze. He glared still, with all the ferocity of a cornered cat, teeth bared. Blood dripped from his lip.

“Your too late,” Crixus hissed at him. “The mad fuck wants to let him live!”

“I will not rule by fear!” Spartacus yelled. “The boy will live and I will train him myself. It is settled.”

Agron rolled his eyes. “He made attempt on your life and you think you can train him?”

Barca looked over the newly freed slave who, finally bowed his head. Perhaps the wishes for his death had finally sunk in. “Perhaps someone of his own age and of similar experience will help tame him before blade is placed in hand?” Barca suggested. “Peitros perhaps?”

Crixus laughed. “Peitros was assistant to Doctore, not some house slave kept in pampered position.”

“A position you robbed me of!” The slave roared. He surged forward but the rebels who held him tightened their grip.

“I agree with Spartacus,” Barca said, and took measure of how the others reacted. “He has a fire in his belly that would be a shame to lose. In time, perhaps he can be a valuable asset to our cause.

The young man remained silent and his glare softened a little, perhaps sensing the lifeline Barca and Spartacus were throwing him. Spartacus had final say, as always, but the others already knew his mind.

Spartacus smiled. “Barca speaks sense. It is not enough to merely train in the hopes bonds of slavery finally break from mind. He will stay with you this night?”

“And others if needed.” Barca offered the young man a smile. There had been enough harsh words thrown his way this evening. “Come. Sleep would do us all good.”

The rebels relinquished him to Barca's grasp and he left before Agron or Crixus could say anything else.

“It is a foolish, dangerous thing you did,” Barca whispered. He rested his hand on the back of the man's neck as a small form of control. “Know that you only live through Spartacus seeing some potential in you.”

“And what is your reason for taking me under wing?”

“You misunderstand intent,” Barca said and tightened his grip just a little on the man's neck. “I do not stand as your teacher, nor friend. I have always treasured small, delicate things and strive to keep them away from less gentle hands. That is all.”

The man stiffened immediately though he did not turn or attempt to run. “I will not offer arse to you, not even if it is the price of my life.”

“Good, because I do not demand it and nor will anyone among our number.” He gave the man a little shove into the room he shared with Peitros. “And if any make attempt know that their death will follow swiftly.”

The man threw him a puzzled look, one mirrored by Peitros who caught the end of the conversation. Barca smiled in the hopes of soothing both their worries.

“We will be three for tonight at least. We shall take turns watching the boy-”

“Tiberius,” their newest companion cut in.

“We shall take turns watching Tiberius,” Barca continued. “I do not know if it will just be this night or more, but that is dependent on Tiberius' behavior. For now, he is under our charge.”

Peitros nodded. “I shall take first watch. I am awake now with no hope of slumber.”

Barca nodded. “He has already made attempt on Spartacus' life. If he proves absent mind and tries again to cause harm to any of our number then see him to the afterlife.” He lay some of the linens stolen from Tiberius' former dominus against the wall then lay down with his sword against his side. “Wake me at first light.”

#

Peitros sat on the bed with his own sword held in his hands, though loosely, and the comforting strength of Barca at his back. Tiberius didn't speak nor lie down nor even look in his direction until Barca's snores filled the room.

“You belong to him?” he asked.

Peitros shook his head. “I love him and he loves me.” He smiled at those words, ones he had not even shared with Barca despite feelings being evident in other ways. “There is no ownership.”

Tiberius snorted and rolled his eyes. “Of course. That is why all men spread their legs for those stronger than them.”

“You are hurting and angry,” Peitros said softly. “But we are not your enemy.” He moved from the bed to sit closer to Tiberius upon the floor. “We can be friends, one day, perhaps we can be brothers?”

Tiberius watched him for a long moment. The anger left his gaze but a sharp edge still warned against any attempt at forming a bond. Instead, Peitros wordlessly got to his feet and poured him some water.

“I am from the same ludus that Spartacus and the others broke free from.” He handed over the cup. “I have seen the bloodshed they have caused, the limbs torn asunder and I have participated in such myself. But I also remember how little my life meant to those that owned me and that bloodshed seems just.”

“That's where we differ,” Tiberious sighed. “I meant something to my dominus. I traveled by his side. I was prized for my way with words and sharp mind, something they all expect of those of Syrian birth but few live up to expectation. I had position and respect, just like I told your leader, and he took that all away from me. All that awaits me now is death.”

“And what did you wish to do with your life?” Peitros gently asked. “Did you wish to travel with that man, to handle his business, to entertain his friends with witty conversation even when your body cried for sleep? Was it your wish to be somewhere you could never leave of your own accord.”

Tiberius said nothing but his gaze fell to the floor. Peitros pressed on, the passion he felt for the cause he had, admittedly unwillingly, been swept up in, surprising him.

“Did he use your body? Did you wish that? Did he allow others to? Did he force you upon any of the women you shared the house with for his entertainment? What about love? Didn't you wish for love?”

“I was happy!” Tiberius insisted, but the glassy quality to his eyes revealed the truth. “Having to fuck that old man was a small price to pay for what I had.”

“What did you have?” Peitros asked, still prodding into the wound he knew was there under the veil of comfortable lies Tiberius had woven around himself. “I thought my life rich too because I had position helping Doctore even if all I did was hand out weapons and tidy things away once more. I had Barca and our master allowed us to share a sleeping space, a luxury. I thought I was safe and loved and respected and still my dominus took all from me when he deemed fit. Every precious and wonderful thing that made my life worthwhile is still here with me but now it is freely given and all the sweeter.”

For a moment it seemed Peitros had struck a chord as a solitary tear ran down Tiberius' check, but, just as quickly, the lion he had seen within him when they first met burst forth in fury.

“You are a fucking fool who hangs from the cock of a gladiator, a general in this false army, in the hopes of fucking your way to position and respect. Your life is no different to what it was before. You must stay in the gladiators shadow and march on his cause or you will be found and you will be hung on the cross.” He shook his head sadly. “Do not waste words on me when I can see the truth for myself. Let me sleep and hasten my inevitable death.”

He lay down on the blankets, closed his eyes, and dismissed Peitros from his attention. With a heavy sigh, Peitros sat back down on the bed with Barca at his back. Like all words that unwittingly stabbed at buried fears, Peitros began to wonder if Tiberius' words held truth.


	4. Nasir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their newest, and most unruly, recruit, is put through his paces.

Barca woke to Peitros gently shaking his shoulder. He gently pulled Peitros close and kissed him. 

“Is that time already?”

“Sleep longer if needed,” Peitros whispered against his lips. “Tiberius has either lain quietly or has slept in fitful bursts. He has been no trouble and if enemy comes to our gates it will not be me they look to to join fight.”

“You may still be asked to raise sword.” Barca's gaze dropped lower and he smirked.

Peitros laughed. “Ah, perhaps if you had not saw fit to place us on guard duty then I would.” He tapped Barca's shoulder. “Up! If you would waste time with chatter rather than more sleep then my offer is rescinded.”

Barca stole another quick kiss before vacating the bed for Peitros to take it. He watched as the younger man snuggled into the sheets and smiled. Oftentimes he found smile upon his lips at the mere sight of Peitros. Reluctantly he turned from him and placed all his attention on their charge.

Tiberius was truly asleep. He lay curled like a small cat, his mouth slack and a small sliver of saliva leaking onto his hand. A true sleep of exhaustion which tugged at Barca's heart. What had this man been through in his short years that would drive him into such a deep sleep around potentially dangerous strangers?

With a loud snort, Tiberius woke up. His glare fell upon Barca, and again the gladiator found himself smiling. Yes, Tiberius was small in stature but he was fierce and unyielding. He was raw iron just waiting for the right smith, and perhaps he would find that in Spartacus.

“Are you hungry?” Barca asked.

No answer came, only an unshakable glare.

“We shall eat regardless.” Barca motioned for him to get to his feet. “You will need your strength if Spartacus wishes you to train.”

“I will not raise sword in your pathetic and misguided rebellion,” Tiberius snarled.

Barca could only smirk. “We shall see.”

#

In the warm midday sun, Peitros sat on the villa steps and watched as Spartacus took Tiberius through his training. The younger man was still reluctant, abrasive, and constantly threw Spartacus dirty looks but he trained all the same.

“He has followed through with fucking stupid endeavor then?” Agron said from behind him, startling him. “What is your measure of him after spending a night in his company.”

Peitros sighed at the implication of Agron's words but refused to acknowledge the double entendre. “He is angry, which is to be expected.”

“Angry?” Agron huffed. “He should be grateful. The bonds of slavery were ripped from about his neck and, even after making attempt on Spartacus' life, he finds himself not only living but with sword in hand. He has nothing to be angry for.”

Peitros did not reply in any form. There was little point when he could not make Agron understand how it felt. The gladiators were a different breed of slave altogether, ones given some measure of respect in the arena and praised and glorified for fighting prowess. What had Tiberius had? Perhaps scraps from the table in return for a good days work. Maybe a moment upon a proper bed while breath was recovered after another molesting?

“He is a snarling, bitter, little pup, isn't he?” Agron chuckled and nudged Peitros' shoulder playfully.

Peitros rolled his eyes. “Allow your analogy to play out in your head in full and perhaps you may understand men like him better.” 

That brought a thoughtful silence Peitros had not expected. He looked at the gladiator, who wore no smile now, merely a look of bewilderment as thoughts organized themselves around the new information. Agron was not a stupid man, not in any way Peitros had witnessed, but like all the gladiators he was rarely given time to think before he was forced to act. Agron turned and threw him a puzzled look. Peitros looked away.

Tiberius, despite his snarling comments and reluctance, was quickly picking up how to fight, quicker than Peitros had. No! He would not fall into the enforced fake rivalries he had witnessed among the gladiators. Tiberius had potential to be a friend.

#

Wine flowed as darkness fell around the villa but Barca did not partake. His eyes roamed the company, though not harshly, surveying what friends and those he did not know so well did when they were in their cups. Tiberius sat alone, purposefully excluding himself from the group unlike Chadara and the other slaves of the house, who mixed freely among the rebels. The angry, snarling mask was wearing thin, revealing a tired and frightened man barely out of boyhood. Barca began to move towards him, wishing to share kind words, but Agron got there first.

Barca smiled. It had not been lost on him how many times Agron's eyes had strayed towards Tiberius.

“You seem in good spirits,” Peitros said as he approached.

“How could I not be, when I have such beauty in my life.” He kissed Peitros and draped his arm over his shoulder. “If Agron gets his wish-” he pointed over - “then we may no longer be on guard duty.”

Whatever Peitros' reply was going to say it was lost in a sudden panic that gripped the rebels as shouts came down from the walls. Romans were approaching.

Barca helped Crixus, Agron, and Spartacus herd the others inside the villa, where everyone as quickly directed to hide. All except Tiberius, who Spartacus issued a special task to.

“I hope you are sure about him,” Barca whispered to Spartacus as they watched Tiberius open the gate.

All he got in answer was a nod. Spartacus' eyes never left the gate. Tiberius spoke too quietly for them to hear but he did not allow the Roman's into the villa itself. Voices remained calm, the Romans eventually turned to leave and then, on Tiberius' word, they turned back.

“We have been betrayed,” Crixus growled.

As one, the rebels moved out of the villa. The first Roman Barca clashed with fell quickly to his sword, the other clung to life long enough to tear his left forearm open. Barca fought on, ignoring the blood that poured down his arm and lopped the head from the guards shoulders. He rushed towards the next target. The guard raised his sword high, ready to bring it down on an unsuspecting Spartacus' head. Barca forced himself to run faster, to make the intercept. Agron was on the move too and shouting Spartacus' name. Before either could reach him a blade burst forth the guards chest and he fell to the ground.

Tiberius stood behind him, his chest heaving and eyes wide as he stared at the guard and the growing pool of blood. Agron moved swiftly, grabbed Tiberius around the neck, and shoved him back against one of the pillars.

“Leave him!” Barca and Spartacus said in union. “He rose sword in defense!” Barca added.

“Only when he saw the tide turning in our favor,” Crixus growled. He pointed his sword at Tiberius. “The little dog must pay.”

“They saw I did not wear my collar!” Tiberius snarled. “If I had let them leave they would have raised the alarm.”

Agron let him go but Crixus did not move back. “And why should we believe you?”

“Because I speak truth,” Tiberius said firmly. He looked at each of them in turn. “I had no choice when he noticed my collar was absent but to invite them in so we could engage in battle.”

“We?” Crixus laughed. “He says we as if he had some part to play!”

“His quick thinking saved many lives this night,” Barca said. “Including that of Spartacus himself.”

Spartacus nodded. “Barca speaks truth. Tiberius-”

“Nasir,” Tiberius said and his gaze met Agron's. “My brother called me Nasir.”

“Nasir,” Spartacus continued with a smile. “Stood with us in defense of our number. He is no threat to us.” He looked around the group. “Agron, make sure suitable scouts are set upon the walls and then retire for the night. The rest of you to your beds. Tomorrow, we leave this place.”

“Am I to share space with Barca and Pietros once more?” Nasir asked.

Spartacus shook his head. “Not if you do not wish it.”

Nasir met Barca's gaze. “I do not wish to cause further disruption to your life, and I have friends here I would see once more.”

Spartacus smiled. “See to it then. Be ready to leave at first light.”

Crixus shook his head, but he waited until Nasir had left to speak. “I would have though one Syrian snake would have been enough but you would keep company with another who has already bared his fangs?”

“He means us no harm,” Agron said, his tone soft, thoughtful. “There was a change to him this night.”

“I will believe it when I see it,” Crixus grumbled. He made his way into the villa with Spartacus following not long after.

Barca waited by the doorway for Agron to return from his duties. He got a puzzled look when he fell into step beside him but kept pace all the same.

“A look passed between you both this evening.?” Barca said. “Do you desire Nasir?”

Agron laughed. “What business is it of yours?”

“I only wish to advise caution. Remember who he was before we came here.”

“Do you think I am going to force myself upon him?” Agron snapped. “I am not some savage beast.”

Barca shrugged. “I merely ask that you pause and think before acting. Nasir was a body slave. Do you know what that entails?”

“Did he tell you?” Agron asked, his voice softening.

“No, but if it the same as other body slaves who have joined our ranks then he may be untrustworthy of any show of affection.” He rested his hand on Agron's shoulder. “There already seems to be some connection with you both. Be patient with him, understanding, that is all.”

With words shared he left Agron alone to think on them.


End file.
